


Reflection

by JustClem



Series: An Amber's Price [11]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Damn it why do I keep writing angst?!?!, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, FUCK, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, I'm sorry for writing this, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Morally Ambiguous Character, Please Don't Hate Me, Self-Hatred, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, amberprice, i hate myself for writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 10:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20562467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustClem/pseuds/JustClem
Summary: “Hey, hey. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m okay.”The words meant to comfort her only serves to upset her more. “Stop that.”“Stop what?”“Pretending that you’re fine.”~Rachel Amber always hurts people, and Chloe Price always gets hurt.





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Weeping Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931701) by [Ghost_in_the_Hella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghost_in_the_Hella/pseuds/Ghost_in_the_Hella). 

> “It’s 30 minutes away from midnight, I feel like I’m gonna write something deep and profound, but IDK, let’s go, peps!” SleepDeprived-Me said, one night away from creating one lit literature.
> 
> But seriously though, if you like this, then you'll seriously like the story that partly inspired me to write this! So, um, go check that out!
> 
> {Written from 23.00 on a Saturday night until around 12.00-13.00 the next day. Edited on Tuesday, from 15.00-16.30.}

You look in the mirror, and notice everything wrong with you.

Your hair is knotted. 

That’s no good. You need to fix that. You will fix that, soon. Your hand brushes up the hair comb on the desk, but you don’t grasp it. Not yet. There are still things to observe, to analyse, to fix. Like your eyebrows, and the bits of hair that has started to grow around them. It’s not noticeable to anyone, you think, but it still needs fixing.

Some girls have the luxury of having thin hair. You’re not one of those girls. You’ll need to tread them, so they look picture-perfect. They’re your eyebrows, after all. They need to be perfect at all times.

You need to be perfect at all times.

You’re you.

You hear the sound of your bedroom window opening, something stumbling and hitting the edges of the window, and cursing.

You smile.

“Oi, Rach,” you hear her say, and the girl in the mirror brightens. “You here?”

“You know, there’s this thing called the front door. You should start using it, sometimes.” You snicker.

There’s a very small pause before- “Oh, really now? A front door? Whatever do you mean?”

You grip the edge of the sink, tilt your head down, and bite your lip to avoid her from hearing your laugh. “The cool kids have been using them, recently. Basically, you go up to the porch, and knock, and someone’ll let you in.” You nod to yourself and force your eyebrows down in faux seriousness. “It’s a pretty good deal, if I do say so myself. You won’t have to climb to the window and risk getting your squishy ass hurt.”

“My ass isn’t squishy.” It so is, but go on. “And I’m still not convinced…”

You consider greeting her, but catch the sight of the girl again - the one in the mirror. Her hair isn’t perfect. She’s wearing her PJs as opposed to clothes people normally see her wear. She’s imperfect. You’re imperfect. You shouldn’t get out yet.

You stay where you are.

“I mean, it’s basically the new hip thing. Don’t you wanna maintain your cool rep?”

Then she surprises you by opening the bathroom door, and she doesn’t even look bothered by it. 

(She always does this; break the walls you’ve carefully crafted to keep people away, to keep yourself in and composed and away from the hurt, and she never notices. She’s an anomaly, a wildcard, and you should stay away from her, but she draws you in with this look in her eyes and you always, _always_ forget how much of a danger she is.)

“Hey!” Your hands instinctively goes to your chest. You’re not naked, but you feel violated, and your cheeks warm up. “Don’t you know how to knock! Jesus, Chloe! What if I’d been in the shower?”

Chloe tilts her head to the side, the perfect picture of clueless. “But you weren’t.”

And even if you were, would you really complain? “That isn’t the point.” You fume, and she blinks, and that makes _ you _ blink and ask, “Wait, what’re you doing here?”

Shoulders shrug, and hands, ever so shy, hide themselves in the pocket of a leather jacket. “Wanted to see you?”

You raise your eyebrow. “So you went all Romeo on me and climbed up the tower? Oh, I hadn’t realised you were such a romantic.” You bring your hand to your heart and bat your eyelashes, leaning into her, only half-playing.

She blushes, and you can’t decipher if it’s because of the close proximity or your teasing. Either way, she looks away and coughs. “Isn’t that Gatsby, though?”

You stop in your tracks. “What? Chloe, why’d you _ even _ \- that’s _ not _ Gatsby, like, _ at all. _”

She frees one of her hands from her pocket only to use it to scratch her chin. “Nah, I’m pretty sure that’s Gatsby. Or Robin Hood.”

Chloe Price, always the illiterate.

You brush the topic away. “But did you really have to go through the trouble of climbing up to my room? It’s pretty tall, you know.”

Briefly, you think back to all of the cheesy romance stories you’ve either watched or read or heard from others, where the chivalrous knight climbs up the tower to rescue the princess from the heinousness that is imprisonment.

You wonder if Chloe knows of these tropes.

You wonder if that’s why she did it.

“I would go through the front door, but-” she winces, and all of a sudden you’re back on reality, and not in the untethering imagination “-your parents aren’t exactly a big fan of me.”

Ah. Yes, of course. Why did you think otherwise? Your parents, like many, hate her because of her inability or stubborn refusal to tell the truth.

“Sorry.”

She flashes you a warm smile, and dims down that smile into something that fits more with her punk, cool, ‘I don’t care about anything’ look she desperately tries to maintain. “It’s whatever.”

(You don’t deserve her.

You will never have her.

You shouldn’t even be close with her in the first place.

You’re toying with her, just like everyone else. You don’t actually care about her. It’s all clever manipulation. You’ll break her heart one day. You know this. You know this because you break everyone’s heart. Even when you don’t need to, you break them anyway. You can’t stop. You’re not sure if you want to stop. Sometimes it feels nice to know how much power you have over that someone. All it takes is a snap of the fingers, and their everything is shattered. _ They _ are shattered. All because of you.)

You rub your hands together. “So, what are you plans for us, Mister Priceless? Breaking the speed limit? Throwing toilet paper over Bitchtoria Chase’s house? Solving murder mysteries?”

“Even better.” She holds up a USB drive between her fingers. “Movie night.”

* * *

“Rachel.”

You freeze, and you sigh. “Yes, Dad?” You soften your voice to match his view of you, what he wants you to be; the vulnerable girl who thinks the world of her father and wishes to please him.

As you walk downstairs, you catch a girl in the phantom reflection of the window. She’s too confident, too bright, and has no depth. You hate looking at her, so you stop.

Your father waits for you in the dining table. He has his hands linked together and on the table, and his back is perfectly straight. You sit opposite of him. You keep your hands separated, and tuck them on your lap, invisible to him.

He looks at you for one, two, five seconds, and something in him seems to crack. His resolve, perhaps? Or is it his patience? Either way, his hands tense and he rushes to say, “I want to know if you’re okay with what happened to…”

“Sera?” Oh, how strange it is to say her name. It should be as familiar as your own name, but it isn’t. She’s become less of a person and more of a figurine to you. A ghost story, of sorts.

Your left wrist itches at the lack of weight, but you push through it. Chloe deserves the bracelet. (Chloe deserves your promise, even if you know you’ll break it. You don’t know why you even made it. At the time, it was the right thing to do, and it made you feel happy to do it. Perhaps that was why you’ve done it. To feel happy, to feel something, anything.)

“Yes.” He shifts, and withdraws his hands. His posture isn’t as perfect anymore. “I know what I did was immoral, but you need to know that I did it for your sake and your sake only.” Something in him flickers. Something you’ve not seen in him since you were a kid. “Rachel, you are my only daughter, so I must protect you, more than anything. Please know that whatever it is I did and will continue to do, it’s with my family in my mind.”

He wants you to say something. What is it that he wants? It’s easy to answer, judging by the way he pleads. The only way to satisfy him would be to smile warmly, understandingly, a little somberly, and say that while you don’t agree with his methods, you get it.

So that’s exactly what you did.

“Dad, I…” You stutter on purpose to sell the act. People, when honest and speaking from the heart, tend to stutter at the beginning, trying to find the right words. "Sera was an addict. Still is. She almost killed me, and if it weren't for you, I'd still, I don't know. I guess you saved me, but I mean, you're my dad, of course you did."

Be all over the place. Clip and fasten your words. Twitch your eyes and mouth respectively. 

He looks stricken. "Rachel…"

Now, to seal the deal. You bury your sigh with your hand, but make sure it's audible. You sag your shoulders and tear your gaze from him only to look back at him, widening your eyes to further add the genuineness. 

“I guess what I’m trying to get at is… Well, I’m not mad at you.”

You’re not sure if that’s a lie. You don’t know what you feel towards him, only that he has loads of money and you need that from him. Is that the only reason why you stay with him? Why you still pretend to be daddy’s little girl? Because you want to continue leeching off of him the way you leech off of everybody? 

Is that who you are? A hollow, manipulative parasyte?

When is the last time you ever felt something?

Either way, it matters not. Your father smiles and says “alright” and lets you be.

* * *

“If anyone is a definition of perfection, it would-” a drunken hiccup “-it would be you.”

You giggle a girly giggle and trail one finger onto Nathan’s cheekbone. He flounders under you, and that encourages you to keep on trailing, keep on pleasing him. “Nobody’s perfect, Nate.”

He looks up at you, and he reminds you of how Chloe used to look at you, back when you were both kids pretending to be adults and you think loving someone is easy. “But you are.” He sniffles, and takes another swig off of the wine he stashed off of his father’s liquor cabinet. It must be one hell of a drink. Nate’s already drunk off his ass, and it’s only his first bottle. Either that, or he’s more of a lightweight than she thought. “You have perfect grades, perfect- like, perfect social status, perfect tits, perfect- just, perfect. Perfect everything. Perfection.”

You laugh, and say “hush you”, because that’s what’s expected of you. He thinks of you as the girl who doesn’t realise how perfect she is, and is too kind for her own good. So you become that, because you need something from him too. (You think you need something from everyone, but what you really need is one love from one person, and you’ll be better. Not okay, but better.)

Then Nate stops chuckling, and shifts his weight. You, on instinct, grab onto him since you’re on his lap. Your face meets his. His breath tickles your neck. 

“But you’re not really you,” he says, sudden and somber and reeling what little mental balance you have. “It must be hard, isn’t it? To always be perfect. I can see how much it tires you. You want the world to stop. You want everything to stop and burn down.”

You see that girl again in the reflection of his shining, glimmering eyes, blurry due to the booze. 

You look away, and ignore the heaviness in your throat.

There are times when you forget that Nate is more perceptive than everyone gives him credit for. That he’s intelligent in a quiet way, in a way that people don’t consider to be true intelligence. Sometimes you don’t consider it to be a true intelligence. Sometimes you consider Nate as an object you need to continuously please in order to get your stash of drugs.

(Sometimes you forget the people you toy around with and manipulate and break are people with feelings, ambitions, philosophies, and hopes. Just like you. Better than you, because at least they don’t crush others on purpose.)

“I’ve gotta get going.” 

You push yourself off of him. You begin to suffocate. Nate doesn’t notice. He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes, and you forget how unstable he is. “You want to die, don’t you?”

“Goodbye, Nate.”

* * *

“How’s the party?” asks Chloe as you try to roll down the window without success in an attempt to smoke without polluting the small space. You frown, and want to bang your fist against this damn truck. This piece of junk is a sweetheart and all, but sometimes it can be a real piece of immovable shit.

“Good,” you say, not knowing if it’s the truth.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a small pause, then a soft “Rachel” that pauses you. You turn to her, and find her in a struggle as she drives. For once, both of her hands are on the steering wheel, and she’s looking straight ahead. 

Dread gnaws at you. “What is it, Chlo?”

There’s more pause. Chloe hates pauses. She hates silence. She reminds you of a kid that way; refusing to sit still, needing to do something at all times lest she’ll implode.

“Are we really going to leave Arcadia?”

And there it is. The dreaded question. You stop your fiddle with the lighter. The cigarette between your fingers lay untouched, unburnt. You inhale, and can’t find yourself exhaling. 

She glances at you. “Rach, why aren’t you answering?” The road is long and empty, but your dread grows anyway. Why is she not wearing a seatbelt? “Answer me, Rach.” You want to, but you can’t. Your mind is blank. It doesn’t have an answer. You don’t have an answer. She speeds up the truck. Way beyond the speed limit. There’s a high-pitched ringing, almost like a roar. It’s your heart, you realise, beating painfully against your chest. The world is screaming in your ears. Everything is loud. Chloe is being loud. This car is too loud, and too fast. “Damn it, Rach! Why aren’t you talking?! Do you even _ want _ to leave?!”

“Good question.”

All is silent, and seconds are hours. Chloe looks at you with tears in her eyes. The yellow light from beyond her grows brighter, more solid. She looks like an angel. A broken angel. An angel you’ve broken.

“What?” she says, her voice soft and cracking with too many emotions for both of you to comprehend, and you think to yourself; she’s so beautiful.

And reality crashes with a honk of a car, a gasp, a sudden swerve, a grunt bordering a scream, too many bumps and hits, a smaller swerve, too many rotations, and a crash.

Chloe gasps and splutters, and everything is too hot.

You stare ahead, frozen. You’re supposed to be terrified, and glad that you’re not dead, and worried for your wellbeing. 

“Rach, fucking answer me! You okay?!”

“Maybe I don’t know who I am, or what I want.” You choke on your gasp. “Maybe everyone wants me to be everything, and they’ve never wanted me to be me.”

“Rachel?”

You see the girl again, in the broken rearview mirror. She’s blank. She doesn’t look frazzled. She stares, unblinking, unbothered. She’s supposed to be scared, to be angry, to be something, anything, to feel. Why isn’t she feeling anything?

The ringing returns. “I’m fine.” You’re not sure if you are. But Chloe needs to hear it, needs to believe that everything’s fine, and you won’t ever get hurt. You’re invincible to her. You’re perfect to her. “I’m fine.”

(Chloe needs something solid she can clung on. Something she considers safety and warmth. Her dad left her psychically, her mom left her emotionally, and her friend literally fucking left her and never called. She needs someone, and if not you, then who'll be that someone? She needs you, you think. She needs you, and that's why you never tell the truth.)

You pretend you never said anything strange. She’s in too much of a shock to really remember what she and you were talking about.

Everything’s fine.

* * *

The Marsh girl sounds disappointed when she says, “I thought you were coming,” over the phone, and you try your best to remember why you bother with her. She is of no importance to you. Sure, she gets along with you, and you like how nice she is, but that isn’t enough of a reason to befriend someone. Not to you. (Oh, but you do like her. She's the opposite of you, yet still harbours a few of the same personality traits as you. You wish you can befriend her, but you don't want her to carry the curse of being your friend.)

“Sorry, girl, I’m busy.” You really aren’t, and you suspect she knows that too. You take a purposefully long drag from your cigarette and lean to the stair steps until you’re practically lying on them. “Plus, it’s not like anyone’s going to come to this, um, church thing.”

“Abstinence.”

“Yeah, whatever.” You should feel guilty for not knowing what it is you’re cancelling. You should feel something, anything. You try to sound apologetic and brush your hand against your hair. You know she can’t see you do it, but it helps with the act. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t come. I’m not sure if I’ll ever, really.” That was one too many ‘really’s. Perhaps you’ve overdone it. “Kate?”

There’s a clicking sound, and she’s no longer on the other line. You stare down at your phone, bewildered. You almost drop your lit cigarette in shock. Did she really just…?

“You know it’s bad when the church girl hangs up on you.”

You refuse the urge to smile and crane your head back. She’s leaning the entirety of her forearm against the wall, depending entirely on it not to fall.

Chloe Price, never to stand up straight.

(Chloe Price, never to be straight.)

You take a small inhale before you ask, “Have you been stalking me?”

She doesn’t acknowledge your question, you notice. She eyes you with this certain look that fits her sharp features all too well. “She was really excited to have you there, you know. You didn’t have to cancel. Especially not like that.”

With her grungy look and dark make-up and even darker clothes, she fools everyone into thinking that she cares about nothing. (The truth is that she cares too much, and that’s why she’s in so much pain. You suppose that’s better than not caring at all and not feeling anything. She cares so much people hate her for it.)

You stand up, and tilt your head up. With shoulders purposefully broadened and a challenging look, you say, “Oh, I’m sorry, but I don’t see you trying to grovel at her too.” You scoff, and ignore the way her features soften into a look of sympathy. “People cancel all the time. She has to learn to deal with it.”

She can’t argue with you and she knows that, not because she has nothing to say or that you have too sharp of a tongue, but because she’s too scared that she might push your buttons too hard and piss you off. She’s scared of losing you. And she’s always cautious around you these days. You should be glad. You don’t want to hurt her. Instead, it saddens you to know she doesn’t trust you as much as she used to.

You should be glad. You love her, and you don’t want to hurt her. She should stay away from you. Instead, she’s closest to you than she is with everyone else.

“Right,” she says, and steps forward. She’s close. Too close. “I… have to tell you something.”

You know what she’s about to say. It’s in her eyes, and the girl in it. She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s the only thing that matters to her. 

She’s not you.

You don’t know who that is, but she’s not you.

“Later, Chloe.” Your chest is heavy, and you find it hard to breathe. You gather your bearings as best as you can and saunter away with a pace too fast. You don’t look back. You’re afraid if you do look back, then you’ll see her, absolutely heartbroken, and empty, empty because of you, because that’s what you do; you take everything from everyone and keep on taking until they’re all empty, hollowed out messes, and even when you want her to be the only exception, the only one you’ve never hurt, she isn’t, she is no exception, and you’ve hurt her deeper than anybody else.

You don’t look back. 

* * *

You don’t feel. You suppose it’s because you think too much, therefore, you’ve unwillingly created a barrier between you and your heart. 

It’s why you do drugs, partly.

The other part is because it’s expected of you, in order to fit in with the so-called ‘cool kids’ and maintain your social status.

Drugs don’t make you feel. They give you the illusion of feeling.

You’re a giggling, high mess, and you’re looking for Chloe. Where is Chloe? You need Chloe. Chloe is your everything. Chloe is everything. Where is she? Chloe, Chloe, Chloe.

You feel a pair of lanky arms around you, and smell men’s cologne and a hint of oil and smoke. 

“Chloe!” Are you slurring? You’re sure that you’re slurring. And swaying. And maybe hiccupping and saying something. She’s saying something back, and she looks worried, and you don’t want her to worry, so you say, “Hey, hey. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m okay.”

The words meant to comfort her only serves to upset her more. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Pretending that you’re fine.”

You laugh, surprised by how keen her observation is. 

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?”

She’s guiding you, you realise. Guiding you away from the loud music and the louder people. Guiding you into a calmer, quieter place. She’s so nice. She’s so good. It’ll be exciting when it’s time for her to break, you think.

“Stop pretending.”

Oh, it sounds so simple, coming from her mouth. You two are opposites that way. She never learns how to lie, and you never understand how to tell the truth. Everyone can see how much she cares, and nobody can see how little you care. She cares so much it hurts her.

“I don’t think I can.”

She throws you down to your bed. You don’t even feel the pain. You laugh because of it. When will you ever start to feel something? Are you really cursed with this emptiness, this lack of feeling for the rest of your life?

(Perhaps, if you try your best, you could change. You could change into someone better, more well-adjusted, and not at all shallow. Perhaps, you could start to give. Perhaps, you could no longer take from people, because you saw no need to. That's a nice thought, you think. But the truth is that you're afraid of change, even the good kind- no, especially the good kind. You prefer to routinely see a monster in the mirror rather than see something strange and different entirely.

You're afraid. 

You're afraid, and that's the truth.)

“Stop. Laughing.” She looks so angry. You wonder what makes her so angry. You know it has to do with you, but at the same time, you don’t know at all. “Damn it, Rachel! I said stop laughing!”

“What if I don’t want to?” You want to stand and sit. You want to pull her close and push her away. “What if I don’t want anything?”

Yet another lie.

When will you ever stop? Please, for one second, can’t you speak the truth? Why do you say things to gain from others? Why won’t you do things because you want to? What is it that you want?

A car light passes through the window, bathing her in gold and red, and suddenly you know exactly what you want.

“Everyone wants something, Rach. Everyone.”

Chloe Price, the secret poet.

You don’t know why, but the words struck you like a dagger to your stomach. It twists, turns, pressures, and forces you until you have no choice but to say, “What if I can’t get what I want? What if I don’t deserve her? What if one day I’ll break her heart, just like I break everyone’s heart? What if I never change?”

Chloe doesn’t look surprised, and it reminds you that she’s the person closest to you, the only one you’ve allowed to catch glimpses of you - the vulnerable you, not the one you show to other people.

“People hurt people, Rach. Even if they love them. It’s just a part of life.”

You shake your head. Your chuckle is bitter. “Not me.”

You hear her sigh. It’s forlorn and dreamy at once. She prompts you to look at her by cupping your cheeks with her soft fingers and softer nails. “Why can’t you see how beautiful you are, Rach?”

Because you’re far from beautiful. 

She leans in closer, and your head jolts without quite leaning away. Your breath catches. “Chloe, don’t…” Your stutter is real. Your uncertainty and hesitance are real. She makes you real, you realise as one lone tear falls - a tear she brushes with a delicate touch. She makes you real, and she makes you believe you're not the girl in the mirror. “You can’t want me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she growls.

“I’ll only hurt you.” You sob. Since when have you been crying? “You know I’ll only hurt you. I hurt everyone. It’s what I do.”

“Yeah? Well then I’ll only get hurt. You know that. I get hurt. Always. It’s who I am.”

You wish you can change that. You wish you can protect her from everything that has hurt her. You wish you can bring her dead father back from the grave, drag her ex-BFF back until she apologises, and shoo away the Step-Fuhrer from ever meeting her mother.

Instead, you’re part of the problem. You’re part of her problem. 

Dare you say, you might be her biggest problem of all.

You're who she should get rid of.

You cry. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

You cry harder. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She kisses you, and you let her. Words are left unsaid. And nothing is fixed. But at least you feel something when you’re with her. You don’t think it’s anything good - it’s longing, fear, and a need to keep her close to you and away from everyone else - but at least you feel something, and that, above all else, is the reason you keep her loving you, keep her subdued, keep her wanting you, and keep her thinking that you’re all she needs, and she can’t live without you.

Keep her, keep her, keep her.

**Author's Note:**

> So turns out I wrote 4k+ words in 4-5 hours. Not sleeping and instead writing this story might be the best decision ever.
> 
> At first, I wanted the ending to go all like “Rachel wakes up, wanders around, thinks about what she’s done, only for Mark Jefferson to appear, and ending things with the subtle hint that that is the night that she died” but I thought this ending would be better.
> 
> I’ve always wanted to write a story which we explore more of Rachel’s manipulative nature. I’m not quite sure I fully achieved that here, or at least went as in-depth as I liked, but I still had fun writing it. I’d like to maybe try again in another time, try to create an even darker version of this.


End file.
